Dark Yesterday
by theblondeknight45
Summary: He's kept his promise, he is the World's Strongest Swordsman. Dracule Mihawk makes his yearly retreat to remember his past, and honor his commitments in the present. A sad one shot exploring a past I believe might have been somewhat accurate for everyone's most revered blade master, Dracule Mihawk.


**A quick, probably somewhat stereotypical one-shot made for the sheer purpose of being sad. Honestly, I just kinda ran with it once I started, and I felt like it was good enough to be posted. It's nothing overly special, but I am proud of it. There doesn't seem to be much fan fiction out there that gives Mihawk a heart, so here is my attempt. I hope you all enjoy, but remember**

 **I do not own One Piece or any characters therein (because if I did, the first thing I'd do is kill off Luffy!) :} Reviews are appreciated.**

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The same thunder that had rumbled the long night previous had not yet fully passed, and the skies were a melancholy gray. The grass on the small island in the middle of no-where was dark and strong, and overgrowing in all places, so that it engulfed the boots of the lone stranger completely. His footsteps were loud but muffled by the vegetation beneath his feet. He walked up the hill slowly as the thunder rumbled again from the heavens.

The steady wind of the island blew in his face, but he did not feel it. All he did was continue his march upwards, uninterrupted by the call of retreating gulls in the distance and the sounds of a small boat drifting into the beach. What the solemn man did hear was the reverberations of stinging memories.

"Oi! Dracule! Look what I found today!"

The boat stopped with a thud and was dragged farther up onto the sand. The oars were thrown inside, almost carelessly. The man went on, trudging through the tall grass and stepping past long dead flowers, gray and cracked.

"What's this?"

From below, many footsteps echoed the man's, but they went on at a more hurried pace, eager to catch up with the silent sojourner that had begun the climb up the tall hill. His upper-most body was lost in the deep fog on the hill as the trackers began to narrow the distance between themselves and their target.

"Isn't it a pretty shell? Mother says it brings good luck!"

At last, the lonely traveler reached the top of the hill, and he continued at his pace into the deepest parts of the mist, heading towards the broken remnants of what looked like an abandoned church in the distance. Its spires and towering architecture as broken as the flowers.

"Really? Do you believe in luck? I don't…"

Now practically running, the group of followers reached the summit of the hill and whispered to one another. Sounds of drawing blades and conniving last minute plans flowed out into the mist, soon forgotten by the white haze. They could no longer see the man they had been pursuing. They could see nothing now.

"You don't? Why not?"

The footsteps of the many dispersed, and they became unsure. They slowed to a stumbling, then many of them paused. The man had vanished completely, and they were at a loss to explain it. Gull calls and the croaking of wild frogs were soon the only sounds perceivable.

"A man cannot live by luck; he must become strong and make his own fortune."

The man turned the corner of the rotted building and walked on. He could see everything clearly, but there was no need to use his sight. The ground was well tread by his feet. He was merely repeating the same action again, as he did once a year.

"That's why you always train, right? To become strong? I wish I could…"

The fog became thicker as the sound of splashing beneath his feet rung, louder with every step he took towards the marsh. The sounds of his hunters were lost even to him now. He was at last alone, for the first time in days.

"I know, but that's part of why I train. I'll always be your protector, and I will become as strong as I need to be for you. I will never let you down."

The filthy water below him slushed around the grass. The pool, overrun with moss and mosquito nests, was mere feet from his right side, and to his left was a harrowing drop that spelled certain death. He went on, undaunted, and soon felt the overflowing presence of his destination. He was close now.

"...would you become...the strongest...ever? For me…?"

The swampish ground disappeared as he walked calmly along the edge of the drop, treading down a nigh invisible pathway. Few had ever known of this inner sanctum of the island, and fewer still had crossed into it. When he set his foot down, it did not land on stone, nor on dense grass, but smooth sand.

"Of course."

His steps from the previous visit were faded, half filled in by the testings of time, but he reopened the wounds without hesitation, careful not to take one wrong step astray from the path he had come by every time prior.

"Will you? Will you become the strongest man in the world for me?"

The ground lowered several meters in, another cruel trick to be played on trespassers by the island's still dense fog. He expected it, and lowered down in perfect synchronization with the land. He sensed the sword stuck in the ground in front of him, and he stopped in front of it. It hadn't moved in decades.

"I will. I will become the strongest man in the world for you, just watch me."

He felt its hilt, worn by the weather and by time, and grasped it fully in his hand, but he dared not free it from the encasing ground. He just stood there, and remembered.

…

"How is she?"

"Not so good…."

The tears were hidden, but not silent. He felt his hands shake, and his heart was stirring. He was prepared to face down anything that got in his way, but some things did not go before him, but instead those he loved.

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's resting comfortably, for me...perhaps we should give her the chance to enjoy it."

"Can I go in and sit quietly beside her?"

"Very well…"

He walked up to the sliding door and pushed it ajar, then back into place when he had stepped inside. He watched her still figure, buried beneath the blankets on the floor, breathing quietly. He slowly and quietly walked beside the wall and took his seat beside her. He wanted to grab her hand, but decided against it.

"I hope you won't give up…

I'm not giving up. I'm training hard every day, and I will keep my promise. I'll become the strongest. Just wait for me...stay here so you can watch me do it. I swear that I will."

She did not stir, but he was resisting the temptation to scream. He bit his own lip and grasped his legs hard enough to split wood, but he ignored the slight pain that he felt. No, rather, he embraced it.

"Please…"

…

He finally allowed his hand to let go of the sword, and he walked on. Eight more steps, and he reached the marker. The beautiful stone that sat entrenched in the sand, a symbol that reminded him to be humble. He bent down and pressed his right index and middle fingers on it for five seconds. Then he stood up and walked four more steps.

The grave was sitting as he remembered it; every fine detail was just as crisp as he pictured it, every indentation of lettering, every spot of blemish and repair. He sat down as he had all those years ago, on the soothing sands.

"I am still the strongest...the greatest swordsman in the world. I only wish swords were able to cure disease…

The world is changing, its so different from when we were young. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep my promise, but I'd sooner die than let you down. You know that. I'm not sure if I should say it, but I almost look forward to the day of our reunification. You would probably tell me to cherish life.

There's nothing very grand about it. And yet, I can't allow myself to just skip it over. One day, far into the future, we will meet again. Give my loving regards to mother and father. I'll be back next year, to remind you of my promise, and how I kept it.

Rest well, little sister."

He remained quiet for another indescribable amount of time, then bowed his head forward as the thundering skies lashed out, and rain began to fall. It came down slowly at first, and then it became more consistent, and soon he was sopping wet.

The sands had hardened, and he stood up and walked quietly away, taking the path to the side that would lead him into the cavern. He listened to the storm's fading power as he walked along the sullen path, isolated from all except the cold stone.

When he at last emerged, he crept by the still wandering hunters, and evaded their best efforts with ease. He came back to where he had ascended the hill, and stopped, then turned. He glanced around with his piercing eyes, and, in a final showing of his promise, he drew the sword from his back.

The magnificent blade, Yoru, glimmered in the gray light, and the enemies were instantly alerted to his presence. They rushed with all manner of force and speed, desperate to cut him down before he made his move.

Yet, fast as they were, their blitz was a mere crawl in his eyes, and he carefully observed them all as they rushed him, swords and pistols and pikes in hand. He let them get just close enough to fill them with the smallest fragment of hope...and cut them down.

His hands moved so quickly that they were not even a blur, but seemed to disappear and then reappear at his sides, as his mighty blade was already holstered in place. The slash was bursting with green energy, and the fog itself was riven in two.

Many spurts of crimson blood soiled the air and the dark green grass below. Moans of despair and immense pain wailed for a split second, then were silenced forever. Corpses hit the ground with unholy drops. The decrepit church behind them shook and buckled under the weight of its entire top half collapsing down on the rest of it.

Only a poster of the group's killer fluttered down, split in two halves like many of the men now lying in pools of blood. The bottom half was also split in two pieces, and the name Mihawk was graven above several zeroes, and fluttered down to land on the grass stained red. The swordsman remained in place as the landscape settled down, and then walked off towards the beach once more.

He ignored the row boat and set off on his raft, into the abyss of the open sea, leaving behind the sacred island of his childhood's fantasy. The blood of his enemies had run there before, and he was quiet sure it may run there again. No matter what, he would always be ready to show his little sister that he was the world's strongest swordsman.

But as his thoughts drifted from his sister, they flew to the young lad he'd met not long ago, Roranoa Zoro. He'd mentioned something of a promise when he was soundly defeated. It was for that reason, more than any other, that Mihawk had become interested in this young pirate hunter. A promise was a powerful thing. If Roranoa Zoro kept that promise of his close enough to his heart, then one fine day, he just might send Mihawk back to his little sister.


End file.
